


Knockout

by missigma



Category: DC Extended Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fighting, Kryptonite, M/M, PWP, Post-JL, bottom!Clark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missigma/pseuds/missigma
Summary: When Bruce goes on an undercover assignment for the Justice League alone, Clark takes it upon himself to protect him. He follows him to an underground amateur boxing ring and enters opposite Bruce.Bruce is not happy to see him





	Knockout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> This is a pinch hit for the 2018 DCEU Exchange. I hope you enjoy, thedevilchicken!
> 
> This is based off some combination of the underground boxing ring in BvS and the All-Star Batman comic where Bruce goes undercover in a Russian fight club (see my avatar). Many apologies for any issues/inconsistencies in the description of the fight. All of my knowledge about boxing/fighting comes from a comedy podcast. Additional apologies, because I really wish I had more time to work on this.

Few matters that come to the League’s attention require their combined strength. There are always smaller assignments, tips gleaned from the more helpful members of the League. One of these is from Barry, who relays rumors of an underground fighting ring that’s pitting humans against metahumans.

Bruce takes the assignment, of course. It’s in Gotham, and everyone in the League knows better to challenge him on his territory. Except Clark, perhaps, who doesn’t like the idea of Bruce going alone. He tells him as much, but naturally, Bruce ignores him. 

Clark isn’t accustomed to giving up, so he searches for him that night, taking to the sky above the sister cities. It’s easy enough to find the steady drum of his heartbeat and trace it to the basement of an unremarkable building. 

It takes only minutes inside the dimly lit room to learn that Bruce is on the card tonight, not as Bruce but as a burly Russian. It takes less time for Clark to decide on his plan of action. It seems the only way Clark can ensure Bruce doesn't get hurt is to enter the ring himself.

He wastes precious time trying to convince the promoter to allow him to fight, time he spends in the locker room, listening to the crowd outside. He hasn’t seen Bruce yet, so he can only guess that he’s out there right now, fighting.

It takes him tugging off his plaid shirt to stand bare-chested in front of the promoter to prove that he should be allowed to fight. The promoter accepts his fake name without question and puts him in the next bout opposite Bruce.

That leaves him only to wait, hoping that Bruce will make it through this fight. Clark sits on a bench, idly watching the other fighters, wondering which of them could be something more than human. Slowly, they filter out of the room until he’s left alone, staring at the sickly green lockers.

“Jonathon,” the announcer finally calls. Clark opens the door to find all attention now turned to him. A narrow path opens leading to the bare cement marked out as a ring. As he walks, the crowd closes around him, jostling him. The rush of sensations nearly overwhelms him, the sweaty rank of the packed crowd, a hundred snippets of conversation. He must look as lost as he feels; a few jeers spread among the men. Clark keeps his eyes on the ring, searching for Bruce.

He struggles to keep his composure when he sees him. Bruce stands casually at the edge of the ring, stripped to the waist. He’s clearly already taken a beating; there’s swelling along his cheekbone and blood on his teeth and hand wraps. His skin gleams with sweat, highlighting the many ridges of scars carved into his body. 

The dark bars of a Botonee cross extend over his chest, the upper embellishment marred by the twisted scar tissue on his shoulder. There is little else to his disguise beyond a change of clothes, a single gold earring, and the fake tattoo, but Clark knows better than anyone how a few simple changes in voice and posture can alter other’s perceptions.

Anger darkens Bruce’s expression as he catches sight of him, but it is quickly replaced. He smiles the way he only does when covered in his own blood. "You must be the boy scout,” he taunts in a thickly-affected accent as Clark makes his way to the center of the ring.

Clark exhales, then raises his fists.

Even weakened, Bruce has an obvious advantage in height and weight. He is also clearly older, silver visible at his sweat-drenched temples. Clark can hear that crowd favors him over the injured man. A few loyalists remain dedicated to Bruce, and Clark can't say he blames them. He would put money on Bruce over any human.

Clark weighs his options. He could take a fall, though that might put them in danger of vengeful bettors. He’s not fond of this option, of giving Bruce any claim to victory over him. He could instead put Bruce down quickly, decisively, before he can come to any more harm. Either way, he must be quick to lessen the chance his true power being exposed.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Bruce strikes at him. Clark drops his guard just long enough for Bruce's fist to connect with his jaw. He stumbles, but no judge comes to break them apart as Bruce strikes him again and again, driving him back into the wall of men that surrounds the ring. Clark easily rolls with each blow, completely uninjured, but he knows he needs to stop this. 

He catches Bruce with a counterpunch, then follows with another blow. He holds back just enough to ensure he won’t do any permanent damage. It’s enough to send Bruce to the floor, foot twisting awkwardly beneath him. Clark follows, delivering a solid hit to his cheek as he kneels on top of him.

“Stay down,” Clark hisses, bracing himself with a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. The crowd jeers as he stands. They have no taste for mercy, even those that put money on him.

Slowly, Bruce turns onto his side. The labored cadence of his breath is not imagined, nor is the way his hand skims over his foot, searching for injury. A few drops of blood spill from his temple, which he scraped against the concrete as he fell. Clark feels sick. This is exactly what he wished to prevent, but now he has only taken the place of some other man who Bruce might have had a real chance at beating.

Working his arms underneath his body, Bruce forces himself to his feet. The crowd around them grows louder again, cheers echoing off the low, tiled ceiling. He meets Clark’s eyes levelly and raises his fists.

Clark shakes his head, as if that will somehow convince Bruce to back down. Bruce only settles into form again, eyes flashing.

When Bruce strikes him again, it’s a shock. Clark did not mean to give him the shot, but his fist connects anyways, smashing into his cheek. His vision flashes and he sways, barely managing to keep up his guard. Jarring pain blooms out across his jaw and he scrambles to get away, to put enough space between them to clear his vision.

Bruce allows him to retreat, but quickly closes in on him. He’s smiling again, first at the spectators, then at Clark.

It’s only then that Clark understands what he’s done. There’s Kryptonite here, likely somewhere on Bruce’s body. He cannot see it now, even if he strains, the effects already damping his powers.

In order to win, he'll have to use what he has left of his strength and speed. Grimacing, Clark resigns himself to a true fight between them. He throws a punch, his full weight behind it, but Bruce is just fast enough to turn away, his fist only grazing his cheek.

Again, Clark draws back, knowing what will come next. If Clark is willing to use all the skills he possesses, Bruce will too.

Bruce shifts his weight lower, the easy swagger of a fighter dropping from his shoulders. He easily blocks another punch, though Clark still hits harder than any human. In the opening that follows, he strikes at Clark with terrifying precision. His fist connects with Clark’s shoulder, sending needles of pain shooting down his arm.

He dismantles Clark in less than a minute. It would be awe-inspiring, if it were not so painful. A punch just under his ribs drives the wind from his lungs. Clark drops his guard then, stumbling into the men that surround the ring who simply shove him back to his fate. Though he tries to protect himself, he’s no longer fast enough to outmatch Bruce who swings hard at his head, laying him out on the floor.

Almost instantly, blackness takes him. Clark scarcely feels the impact as he crashes into the ground, everything oddly silent around him.

When Clark opens his eyes again, he can’t tell how much time has passed. Seconds or minutes, he guesses, as the crowd is still shouting. His hearing slowly returns, volume increasing from a muffled rumble to a clamorous roar.

Bruce stands among them, near the edge of the ring. For a brief moment, a man in a rumpled suit raises Bruce’s hand in the air, before delivering a bottle of vodka to him. Bruce takes a shot, then gladly swallows another, barely wincing as it stings the scrape on his lip.

The bottle still tight in his fist, he paces over to Clark, grinning. Clark takes the offered hand and lets Bruce drag him to his feet. He accepts the bottle, takes a swig, then exhales against the burn.

“Lockers,” Bruce prompts, picking the bottle from his loose fingers. Clark nods stiffly and they slip through the press of bodies towards the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Why?” Clark asks, as soon as he’s sure they’re alone.

“What?” Bruce prompts, accent quickly dropping.

Clark has half a dozen questions. Why is Bruce carrying Kryptonite? Why use it tonight? He finally settles on: “Why did you have to win?”

“I wanted the prize.” Pointedly, Bruce takes another drink. 

“Funny,” Clark returns flatly. “How did you know I was going to be here?”

“You have a habit of showing up in Gotham when you’re not wanted,” Bruce shrugs, though his voice has gained an aggressive undertone. He sets the bottle on the bench between him. “The metahuman fight is next week. Though you need to accept I’m not as helpless as you seem to believe.”

“So, I should just let you go into that fight alone when you have no idea what you’re facing? No idea how many metas are even here?”

“I _proved_ that I can beat a metahuman in a fight tonight. What are you going to tell me next? That I can’t patrol without your supervision?”

Clark bites his tongue, stewing. His mind remains stuck on his earlier point. “You always carry Kryptonite, don’t you?”

Bruce lifts an eyebrow but does not deny it. Clark knows better than to expect him to apologize. “Did you put it away?” he asks as he edges around the side of the bench.

“Yes,” Bruce replies cautiously.

In one quick pace, Clark bridges the gap between them. He braces his forearm across Bruce’s chest and shoves him against the row of lockers behind him. Bruce grunts as his back meets steel, then raises his hands to grapple with him.

Already, Clark feels stronger. He knows, even as Bruce struggles to try to find a better position, he cannot break free. Bruce comes to the same conclusion within seconds, stilling against him, his chin lifted in challenge. He looks down at Clark, chest rising and falling.

Clark forces their mouths together, rough enough that Bruce’s head smacks back against the lockers. Bruce’s grip on his arm remains tight even as his attention turns to the kiss. He bites at Clark’s lips, canines scraping over his skin. However vicious, Bruce undeniably returns the attention, tongue tangling in Clark’s mouth when he finishes mauling his lips.

Bruce shifts against him, widening his stance in preparation to try to escape. Clark leans forward, pressing into his body, chest to chest. He pins him like that for a minute, allowing himself to savor him. There’s salt on his lips, the remnants of his exertion. His tongue tastes of vodka and coppery blood. 

Again, Bruce shifts, but now Clark is too late to stop the throw as it catches him by surprise. He slams against the bench, barely managing to keep from snapping it in half. His outstretched arm hits the bottle of vodka, smashing it on the floor.

It takes only seconds more for Clark to swap positions with Bruce. He drives upwards with his legs, using brute strength alone to force Bruce back against the lockers. Clark pins his bloody hands near his shoulders and works a knee between Bruce’s thighs. He kisses him again, grinding his hip into his groin. He can feel his cock trapped between them, hard and thick. Bruce tilts his head back, lifting his leg just enough to put pressure against Clark’s cock.

It’s good, but it’s not quite right. Clark can’t really feel it, will never really know what it’s like to have Bruce push just a little too hard, to prod at his wounds. It’s not what Clark really wants, not after knowing exactly how it felt to have Bruce bring him to his knees.

“Get it out again.” Clark steps back, releasing him.

Bruce’s eyes flicker as a look that might be surprise flashes across his face. For a second, Clark thinks that he will refuse, then he bends down to draw open a compartment in his shoe. Immediately, the awful cold of the crystal washes over him. The sensation only grows as Bruce stands, the Kryptonite clenched in his fist.

Now, Clark is no match for him as Bruce grips him by his shoulders. Bruce easily tackles him, casting him down on the floor even as Clark still tries to fight him. He lands just shy of the mess of broken glass. Vodka slowly seeps across the floor, wetting Clark’s skin and hair, but Bruce takes no notice. He quickly straddles him and digs his knee heavily into Clark’s stomach, before putting the shard of Kryptonite to his throat.

Clark gasps open-mouthed at the contact, and Bruce takes full advantage. He kisses him, and Clark cannot get enough. He reaches up, weaving his fingers through fistfuls of Bruce’s hair, and shuts his eyes.

Bruce’s hands skim down his chest, one warm, the other bringing the icy touch of Kryptonite. Clark hisses as it scrapes across his skin, tracing a narrow line down his sternum to his stomach. He feels Bruce pull at the waist of his jeans, and releases his hold to help, sliding them down his thighs and kicking off his shoes.

Starting from the inside of Clark’s knee, Bruce runs his hand up his thigh, encouraging him to raise his leg. He pauses at the junction of his pelvis before taking Clark’s cock in his hand. 

Clark grunts, glad to finally be touched, skin against skin. As Bruce works at his cock, he lowers his mouth to his clavicle to kiss and bite at him. The Kryptonite remains close, clenched in Bruce’s free hand.

After a few minutes like that, Bruce releases Clark’s cock in favor of pulling down his own trousers. There he leans forwards until his cock rests solidly against Clark’s. Clark thrusts his hips up and Bruce presses down, dry friction slowly building between them.

Propping himself up on his elbow, Clark reaches for Bruce to return the favor. Bruce knocks his hand away with a growl. He sits back on his heels, nudging Clark’s thighs farther apart.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Bruce rumbles. “Is that what you want?”

“God, yes,” Clark pants. That’s all Bruce needs to turn and fish lube out of a nearby locker.

Bruce tears off the bloodied wrappings on his hand with his teeth, eyes fixed on Clark below him. Clark can’t help but touch himself, fisting his cock slowly as Bruce watches. He has never thought he would see Bruce like this, looming large over him, his cock bobbing out in front of him, red and marked with the wetness of precome at its head. Clark’s cock twitches and he squeezes at himself, trying to slow the rush of lust coursing through him.

It’s barely a minute before Bruce’s hands return to Clark, pressing lube-slick fingers into him. First two, then quickly three. He’s rougher than anyone Clark’s ever had, but Clark’s also never been this close to human before.

Clark’s so eager, perhaps too eager, to get Bruce inside him. With one hand at his ass, he holds himself open, breath short as Bruce guides his cock into him. Clark gasps as he slides in, wondering desperately if this sweet burn is really what it feels like for everyone else.

Briefly, Bruce bares his teeth as he takes him, before locking his jaw. He presses into him carefully, thrusting a little deeper each time until he’s fully-seated inside him.

Clark tries to turn his head, but Bruce stops him, digging his thumb into the newly forming bruise on his jaw. Holding him there, he sets a steady pace. Clark arches against him, getting him deeper and deeper, but Bruce quickly tires of his squirming. He grips at Clark’s thighs, dragging him closer, then leans down, pressing Clark’s legs into his chest as he braces himself with hands on either side of his shoulders.

Bruce fucks him like that in long, hard strokes. Clark shudders as he brushes against his prostate, then moans as his cock hits hard against it. He can scarcely think to do anything other than to hold onto him, hands gripping tight at chiseled muscle of his back.

“Please, Bruce,” Clark whimpers, though he doesn’t know what he’s begging for. He slips his hand between them to tug at his cock.

Above him, Bruce’s breath grows rough. His hips snap hard against Clark’s ass, then he comes. The Kryptonite slips from his grasp, though he scarcely seems to notice. He drops his head into Clark’s shoulder, stubbled jaw grazing his throat.

With a few last pumps of his cock, Clark comes between them. He arches again, every muscle taut, then slowly begins to relax, all tension wrung from his body.

Gently, Bruce sits back. He rests briefly there, leaning, half-slumped against the lockers until he catches his breath. Then he stands, attention turning to his own injuries. 

Clark exhales as he lets his feet hit the floor, limbs spread out limply around him. He can feel the moment the Kryptonite is locked away in lead as warmth slowly returning to his veins despite the cold, wet concrete at his back. Gingerly, Clark sits upright and turns to Bruce.

“So, next week?” he finally manages, pushing himself up onto the bench.

Bruce finishes pulling up his trousers. He considers him for a minute, but all animosity appears to be wiped from his mind. “Next week,” he confirms.


End file.
